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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482792">days gone by</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutterandmumble/pseuds/mutterandmumble'>mutterandmumble</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Group dynamics, Ice Cream Parlors, Mild Angst, Mild Language, Missing Scene, Pre-Canon, Spoilers, for MAG 161, iffy information on emulsifiers, martin’s crush on jon, not edited</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:16:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,422</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutterandmumble/pseuds/mutterandmumble</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it’s Martin’s birthday, the archival crew goes out to celebrate, and Jon faces some more mundane horrors head-on.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>——-</p>
<p>Or: a fic based on Martin’s birthday celebration mentioned in MAG 161</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Sims &amp; Tim Stoker, Sasha James &amp; Jonathan Sims, one-sided Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>209</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>days gone by</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Warning for a very short description of sensory-based discomfort</p>
<p>I did have to google emulsifiers, and then read a couple articles about them, so if the information in here is wrong in any way I’m very sorry about that. There’s a bizarre amount of conflicting information out there, and my chemistry education begins and ends in tenth grade. I ended up going with what I saw most often represented. Anyways it’s a really interesting topic, actually, and if you’re curious I suggest looking it up.</p>
<p>That aside, I wrote this in one day (and god it shows) because 161??? Tim and Jon friendship? Sasha? Fucking <i>I love you</i>??? And I really wanted to see the scene where they went out for ice cream and then I realized that I could just… write it. Just like that. Nothing was stopping me, aside from the fact that this is not how I usually write so it was an experience, I guess. It was fun though- I don’t do much in the way of larger character social outings due to personal preference, mostly, so it felt pretty new.</p>
<p>That said, I hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t know how he got here- and that’s a lie, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>know and it begins with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tim </span>
  </em>
  <span>and ends with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stoker</span>
  </em>
  <span>- but regardless of the why and how (and the when and the where and the who), Jon has been in one way or another roped into what seems to be a celebration for Martin’s birthday. They’re all piled into Sasha’s tiny silver car, and she’s seated up behind the wheel and driving like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>madman, </span>
  </em>
  <span>whipping past corners with her hair piled up behind her head into a red mass of frizz as her hands fly over, under, around and once (he swears!) </span>
  <em>
    <span>through </span>
  </em>
  <span>the wheel. Tim is next to her, fiddling with the buttons of the radio until he settles on a station that’s playing a song that Jon doesn’t recognize at a volume that’s frankly obscene. The bassline thrums through his chest and he shifts in the backseat, tugging the seatbelt away from his stomach and wringing his hands in his lap.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wriggles around, careful not to move too far in either direction because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Martin</span>
  </em>
  <span> is sitting next to him, and he really doesn’t want to bump into him and then have to stumble his way through half-formed apologies shot from both sides. They’re very close already, something that Tim seemed oddly insistent about when he pushed past them both to nab the front seat. Jon doesn’t understand the logic behind these seating arrangements at all- Martin is taller than both him and Tim, though about the same height as Sasha, and by that logic, shouldn’t Martin be sitting up in the front? Just for ease of transport?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Back here, their shoulders keep brushing and Martin has to hunch his head beneath the roof. His hair keeps tickling the side of Jon’s head and their knees are knocking together and Martin’s legs are all squished up against the back of Tim’s seat, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>seriously </span>
  </em>
  <span>he would have much, much more legroom up front. Sasha does! And Jon </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>that Martin has to be uncomfortable, because he keeps alternating between shooting Jon these odd little looks from the corner of his eye, mouth all set and sad, and looking out the window at the rain with much the same expression. Jon thought at first that he had something on his face and Martin was trying to tell him through telepathy or implication or something of that sort. He’s been trying to subtly check in the mirror up front for the past ten minutes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But his face looks fine. His hair is in order, and his glasses are firmly settled on his nose and his shirt is pressed and buttoned and the sleeves are just long enough that he can tug them over the heels of his hands. Standard, standard stuff. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So why does Martin keep </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>awkward. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>strange. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The energy in the car is very off-putting, one part stale and two parts uneasy, and Jon doesn’t know how he’s meant to break the discomfort that he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>is due at least in part to himself. Does he talk? Does he </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>talk? Does he sit and hope that one of them will strike up a conversation? Does he just give up and take a nap?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Up front, Tim changes the song again, this time to something with a little more of an edge and a lot more in the way of drums and screams and long, winding guitar solos. It’s fine, but it’s also </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Jon doesn’t much like </span>
  <em>
    <span>loud </span>
  </em>
  <span>when he’s already on edge, wound up and ill at ease. But the music keeps grating, so much noise piled onto noise piled onto </span>
  <em>
    <span>noise </span>
  </em>
  <span>that it’s rattling his ribcage, making his teeth gnash together and his eyes roll in his head, and if he has to sit here for one more moment than his soul is going to up and abandon him entirely, and everyone will just have to deal with corpse-Jon in the backseat. Maybe corpse-Jon would be able to muster up some good conversation, confident and clear in the absence of his stupid </span>
  <em>
    <span>brain</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you turn that </span>
  <em>
    <span>down?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he asks during a particularly squealy section, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>god </span>
  </em>
  <span>that sounded huffy. The first words that he says on this whole trip to god-knows-where, and all that they do is make the car feel ten times smaller and everyone else seem ten times larger. Jon crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window, watches the drops of rain slide smoothly over glass and the world outside warp itself into twists and turns and spirals behind them, and staunchly does not look at anybody else.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“God, you’re no fun,” is all Tim says. It’s casual though, said with his usual easy rumble, and he flicks the knob back down without so much as a moment of hesitation. The music continues its worked-up rant at a volume that is much more acceptable, fire and guitar solos and all, and Jon lets some of the tension that had worked itself into his shoulders bleed back on out. Tim and Sasha have begun talking up front- or maybe they were always talking, and now he can just hear them- and the cadence of their voices are calming like a heartbeat or the sound of the rain.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>He can't quite hear what they’re talking </span><em><span>about</span></em><span>, but then he also doesn’t know where they’re going or why, so in the end that’s just another thing to add to the great big mass of unknown</span> <span>that he’s taken to lugging around with him. He doesn’t know why Martin is sitting in the back, doesn't know what street they’re on, doesn’t know why Tim invited him along when all that he’s done is sit in the back and look out the window and make him turn down the music. He doesn’t know if he’s wanted here, doesn't know if he should make an excuse and leave, doesn’t know how he’s meant to act.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Most importantly he doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>who </span>
  </em>
  <span>thought it was a good idea to give Sasha a license.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She skims over a white line, slams on the gas and slides them through an intersection on the tail end of a red light. Jon shudders. He pulls his arms closer, shifting from less of a stern-shouldered straight-backed sit to a comfortable half-hunched thing, where he’s curled over his arms and gripping the fabric of his sleeve between his fingers. Martin looks at him, pensive and slow- and how exactly does he pull off </span>
  <em>
    <span>pensive </span>
  </em>
  <span>so smoothly, is it the eyebrows drawn low, the measured downturn of his mouth- and upon seeing that Jon is looking back, he turns away again. Jon wants to scream in frustration. He wants to rip his hair out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That’s how it goes, as the car rattles on: they drive, to somewhere that Jon is </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim probably mentioned to him before they left but that he can’t remember for the life of him, and Sasha nearly kills them all two more times, and Martin continues to look at Jon and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>look at Jon, over and over again. Seriously, is it his hair? Should he get a haircut? He doesn’t want to get a haircut. He doesn’t like all the mirrors and televisions and people with their hands on his head. He could do it himself, he guesses, but he might have some issues getting the strands in the back. Though plenty of people have to have given haircuts to themselves- it</span>
  <em>
    <span> has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be something that people do, so maybe if he does something creative with mirrors or just sort of goes for it, he’ll find that the whole thing is instinctual and-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, someone’s talking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon?” Martin (and of course it was Martin) repeats, reaching out a hand to lightly hover over Jon’s shoulder. “We’re here, if you want to...”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon takes a moment to remember that </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s still in the car, and then another moment to realize that </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the car is no longer moving, and then yet another to see that everyone else has begun to unbuckle their seatbelts. He quickly waves Martin’s hand away and follows suit, pressing his thumb into the bright red </span>
  <em>
    <span>release </span>
  </em>
  <span>button and humming over the satisfying click. Then because he really ought to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>where </span>
  </em>
  <span>exactly they’ve skipped out on work for, he cranes his neck over the front two seats, squints through the windshield that has become rain-soaked in the short time that they’ve been sitting still, and tries to make sense of the building beyond it. He sees a dark green awning and a cracked sidewalk, walls painted a soft beige and big floor-to-ceiling windows, a faded poster plastered to the insides of the glass and a great big sign declaring the place an ice cream parlor.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Huh.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He clambers out of the car, close on Martin’s heels. They make a mad dash for the sidewalk where it lies safe and dry beneath the awning, and from there it’s past the big glass doors and into the building itself. Inside is much as Jon would expect; he hasn’t been to very many ice cream parlors in his time, not in his youth or his adolescence or his adult years, but they really only vary so much. There’s the wobbly tables crowded into the corners, the checkered floors (red-black-red-black-red), the big glass case filled with rows of ice cream tubs and then the cashier at the very end of it all, smiling vacantly at them as they enter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s busy too. Buzzing, between the high-pitched hum of voices and the unyielding fluorescents above. They take their place in line behind a family of four, and the other three start talking about something or other, but Jon is </span>
  <em>
    <span>preoccupied. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This is the biggest task that he’s faced down all year, bigger than promotions or weird coworkers or weirdly omniscient bosses or even reorganizing the archives; he has to settle on the flavor he wants before they reach the front of the line. And this is very, very important, because if he’s going to be dragged from his veritable </span>
  <em>
    <span>piles </span>
  </em>
  <span>of work to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>ice cream</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then he’s going to be damn sure that the ice cream is </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s going to take some thinking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a lot of choices. There’s the normal ones and then ones that he’s never heard of, and then ones with names that he wouldn’t be caught dead saying- there’s a way that he has to do this, and it has to be just right. He doesn’t get ice cream very often so he doesn’t have much in the way of preference, but not having much in the way of preference just means that he has all the more choices, and there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so many</span>
  </em>
  <span> choices all lined up nice and neat in front of him that it makes his head spin. Their names are printed in a neat, blocky black font across cards that are taped to the front of the glass, raised slightly so that he can see halfway down the line before the angle becomes too severe for him to work the letters out. Some are accompanied by little designs, little animals or swirls or curls. He likes the dolphin next to vanilla, though he doesn’t quite understand </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>exactly a dolphin should be made the face of the flavor. Maybe he’s missing something here. It wouldn’t be the first time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Speaking of things that he’s missed, it seems the conversation the others are having is heating up, tumbling towards a fever-pitch; Sasha is arguing with Tim, loud and brash but still good-natured, and Tim is arguing with Sasha with just as much if not </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>fervor, and Martin is somewhere among it all, trying to run interference. Jon hears little snippets of their voices slithering through his choice-induced, ice-cream centered haze- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Strawberry or vanilla?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he wonders as they talk, words going in one ear and right out the other. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Raspberry or peach?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think anyone should have to pay for their food when they go out on their birthday,” Sasha is saying behind him. “That’s just a fucking rule, isn’t it? Like we dragged him out, so we should pay for him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You just want to set a precedent so that you don’t have to pay if we go out for </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Tim fires back, with the sort of glee-filled tone Jon associates with his nicest-mean smile. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>teasing </span>
  </em>
  <span>one he’d say, if he were pushed and prodded and coerced into putting a name on it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> be paying </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> we go out for mine! Why else would I let you come along, Stoker? To ruin the atmosphere?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d let me come along because I’m great company.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon listens to their banter idly, with his head half on- he’d been filing when Tim had dragged him from the archives, and now that he’s not cooped up in a car he can feel himself drifting back to the work that he ought to be doing. He’d been trying to decide where to file Case #0122204, he remembers, even when Tim had a hand around his wrist and was tugging him headlong down the innumerable hallways and out the door, right to Sasha’s already running car. And after that case there were tens upon hundreds upon </span>
  <em>
    <span>thousands </span>
  </em>
  <span>of more to go- he really shouldn’t be taking a break.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thinking about work makes him feel guilty, and thinking about the other’s conversation makes him feel bizarrely disconnected, so instead he turns his attention back to the case, perusing the selection with all the frantic energy he can manage without cluing the others in because their knowing of any of his inner turmoil would be very, very embarrassing, much less that revolving around </span>
  <em>
    <span>ice cream flavors</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So from the corner of his eye, and with his fingers tapping against his sleeves like he’s drumstick and drum all at once, he looks. They’ve got blackberry and shortbread, chocolate-chip and cookie dough, chocolate-chip cookie dough and mint chocolate chip; he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thoroughly </span>
  </em>
  <span>hopes that the pattern cuts itself short there and there’s not a mint chocolate-chip cookie dough, because that would be disgusting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t mind paying for mine, really, we can just split the cost between all of us-” Martin cuts in, voice floating hesitant between the others, reaching out to reel Jon back into his halfhearted, largely subconscious attempts to decipher their conversation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>Blueberry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the part of his brain still focused on the task at hand says, and yeah, he will have to consider blueberry.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well it wouldn’t be special then, would it? It’d just be us going out for ice cream,” Sasha says. She has her arms crossed, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>end of discussion </span>
  </em>
  <span>crossed and not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d rather be anywhere but here </span>
  </em>
  <span>crossed that Jon favors. He doesn’t quite understand Sasha’s line of reasoning- as long as they all acknowledge Martin’s birthday, what difference does it make whether or not this is a special outing as opposed to a regular one? It all amounts to the same thing, doesn't it? But speaking of recognition, he should probably wish Martin a happy birthday. He will after he gets through this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lime, key lime</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his brain chants, but those are just the same thing.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Cake batter, chocolate cake batter, banana, strawberry sorbet</span>
  </em>
  <span>- wasn’t the ice cream enough? Now there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorbet?</span>
  </em>
  <span>)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh come on Martin, you’re not paying </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not for you and not for anyone else! It’s your </span>
  <em>
    <span>birthday</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Sasha protests, tugging Jon gently back to the present, her voice strong from all sides and keeping him firm on his feet. He likes Sasha- she’s not forceful, but she’s certainly not yielding. She’s like a push between the shoulderblades. He likes that. Maybe he should ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sasha </span>
  </em>
  <span>what fucking ice cream flavor he should get, because she wouldn’t beat around the bush, oh no, she’s tell him straight up and she’d be as blunt and clear about it as anything else.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>(</span>
  <em>
    <span>Birthday cake</span>
  </em>
  <span>- that’s not a real flavor- and there at the very end of this section, </span>
  <em>
    <span>rum and raisin</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Oh. Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>might work.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s ask Jon. He’s always got some strong opinions. Jon, what do you think?” Tim’s voice asks, and Jon supposes that Tim must be the force behind Tim’s voice, and Tim’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>therefore</span>
  </em>
  <span> probably trying to get his attention, so he turns around just to check- with his limbs flailing as if he’s a puppet on a string- only to see that they’re all three </span>
  <em>
    <span>staring</span>
  </em>
  <span> at him, wide eyed and waiting. Jon feels his brain slipping away, taking any comprehension he might’ve had regarding their conversation with it. He blinks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was going to get the rum and raisin.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They blink back. Tim snorts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah,” Martin says. “That’s nice.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They stare. The fluorescents buzz like a bee, their bright-white light making them all look washed out and tired. Fluorescents don’t look good on </span>
  <em>
    <span>anybody, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jon thinks through his mounting panic, not even Tim. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But,” Martin starts again, coughing awkwardly. “We were, um, we were talking about whether or not someone should pay for the food when it’s their birthday. Whether that’s… allowed I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think that it’s ridiculous,” Sasha jumps in. She looks down at him, freckles stark beneath the fluorescents. “Like it’s your </span>
  <em>
    <span>birthday! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>make everyone else pay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I agree,” Tim adds, and Sasha swats at his arm hard enough that he stumbles.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why the fuck were you arguing then?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was bored. This line’s long.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She shoves him again, harder, and then turns back to Martin and Jon. She has a hand up to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose and tilting her head back in a poor attempt to hide a smile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “I’ll cover for you two today,” she says,  “Because it’s Martin’s birthday, and I’m sure that Tim dragged you out here, Jon. As for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tim, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he can buy his own.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m never recovering from this,” Tim bemoans as the line finally begins to move. “You’ve ended me, Sasha. This is it. I’ve lived such a short life, such a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>one and you’ve cut it </span>
  <em>
    <span>short-</span>
  </em>
  <span>“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>Sasha does not even twitch. Sasha just herds them all down the line, stomping over the rise of Tim’s rant with her bright red hair and her bright brown eyes and her bright, bold way of holding herself. And because when Sasha tells you to move you </span><em><span>move, </span></em><span>they all shuffle up, bumping into each other and finally settling in a small set of tiles that are not quite</span> <span>in front of the cashier yet. Jon carefully does not look at all the new flavors of ice cream that have made themselves visible now that they’re further down the line.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a lull once they still, a scoop of quiet that Jon thinks may be natural; no good conversation is </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>conversation, because that downtime in between topics gives a much needed break here and there, but a good group outing is different than a good conversation and a good group outing requires talking, right? About everything? About nothing? Constantly, incessantly? People make conversation on group outings, Jon thinks, so he ought to make conversation. Talk to them. Wish Martin a happy birthday, or talk about filing, or talk about Case #0122204, or talk about the filing of Case #0122204. Say </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>“So rum and raisin,” Martin says at the same time that Jon remembers that documentary he watched a few weeks back and blurts something out about </span><em><span>emulsifiers,</span></em><span> of all things,</span> <span>good </span><em><span>god</span></em><span>.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martin looks taken aback. “What?” he says, rum and raisin apparently forgotten. That’s a shame. It really is rather good. “Emulsifiers</span>
  <em>
    <span>?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck’s an </span>
  <em>
    <span>emulsifier,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Tim asks, and that’s… fair.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Um,” Jon says, and well </span>
  <em>
    <span>in for a penny, in for a pound, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so he fixates on the closest red floor tile and just goes for it. “An emulsifier helps keep liquids that would normally separate stable, or together, by… preventing the fat or water molecules from coalescing, I believe it was. Think like oil and water, or homogenized milk. Milk’s an emulsion, and a relatively stable one at that. Emulsifiers are used a lot in processed foods, because they help to keep it stable, but they’ve got other uses too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>By the end of it the information is spitting out of him like he’s reading it off of a list, and Martin is looking at him again, very close and cloudy-eyed. Jon braves a look at his reflection in the glass case to see if he hasn’t magically sprouted a second head but all looks as usual, so he decides to chalk it up to some strange birthday-related emotion. He doesn’t understand Martin at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But what does that have to do with ice cream?” Tim says, sounding genuinely interested, Jon starts right out of his reverie, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>sounds genuinely interested. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s… different with ice cream,” he says, picking up speed. The line moves on forwards- they’re nearly at the register now. “Odd, I guess, or at the very least from what I’ve learned of it. The emulsifiers added to ice cream destabilize the milk emulsion, which allows the fat globules that were stabilized in it to sort of clump together when mixed. That combined with the air bubbles also made by the mixing makes for the general texture and shape of ice cream. The emulsifiers are important for that. The texture.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That… makes sense. I think,” Sasha says. “So normally they hold stuff together but in ice cream they push it apart?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so,” Jon says. There’s a swell of excitement beneath his sternum, a sort of borderline overwhelming happiness at the proof of being </span>
  <em>
    <span>listened </span>
  </em>
  <span>to, no strings attached. And with that excitement comes more words, and as no one has told him to shut up yet he’s going to talk as long and fast and woefully in-depth as he can. “Egg yolks are a very common emulsifier, both for ice cream and many other common household items like mayonnaise, because they contain lecithin. I actually watched a really interesting documentary on food processing the other day, actually, if any of you would like the name. It might take me a moment, but I’m sure I could find it again.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh I’m good, thanks,” Tim says immediately, holding up both hands. They shuffle forwards, inch by excruciating inch. “Not that that doesn’t sound interesting, but a whole documentary?” He laughs lightly. “I wouldn’t have the patience for that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Me neither,” Sasha follows. “Anything longer than twenty minutes and I fall asleep.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean,” Martin starts slowly, “I’d like to know more about it. If you're offering.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tim gives him a long, long look. Martin looks right back. Jon’s not entirely sure what’s going on there</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but that’s none of his business. If this is his way into getting to talk more about his documentaries, than so be it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well alright,” he starts, though even that sounds beleaguered and strained, frighteningly close to his default annoyed. He doesn’t want to sound annoyed right now. So he pauses for a moment, draws back in on himself to recalibrate, rattles up all the information that he can and then lets it all go at once, like water bursting from a dam.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So it was on food processing, as I mentioned, and it ran for about half an hour around two weeks ago on-“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And he talks. And he talks, and he talks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And talks and talks and talks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a short interruption when they have to order- he agonized over that rum and raisin, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>getting </span>
  </em>
  <span>it- and again when they elbow through the veritable waves of people to find a place to sit, but after they’re settled he dives back into the food processing documentary, and then follows that with the deep sea creature one. Martin nods along, looking somewhat dazed as Tim and Sasha gesture at each other, joking lightly among themselves, and Jon just keeps on talking. Right up until they all finish and Sasha makes them run back out to the car so that they </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t get fucking water all over the seats of her car, come on, run </span>
  </em>
  <span>faster-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The drive back down is much better than the drive up, because Tim keeps the music down and Sasha even drives half a mile slower, and though Martin sits in the back, right next to Jon again, he doesn’t do the look-look-look-away thing; rather they sit together, with the rain pounding at the roof, and Jon babbles something about bookbinding. It’s nice. It’s good. Martin is listening to him, and Tim and Sasha’s voices are as easy and familiar as ever, so it’s good.</span>
</p>
<p>It’s good.</p>
<p>
  <span>They get back to the institute around 13:00. They all climb back out of the car again, Sasha splashing in the puddles that have gathered on the asphalt as Tim tries to pull his jacket up to protect his head and Martin laughs behind his hand, and Jon feels very </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like not even filing (which he quite likes actually, he enjoys the process of organization, but performative hatred of things he enjoys is a very easy second nature) could get him down now. And when they’re nearly at the doors, his own hand reaching out to grasp the handle, he remembers something very important and turns around to face the other three. God knows that his brain won’t let him rest until he draws this to a close, a nice neat one that makes everyone happy, and he can’t afford a distraction- the moment that he walks on through the doors, it’s back to work and his work requires all of his attention. Laser-focused and intense.<br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So it’s best to put this all to bed, right here and now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, I almost forgot,” he says. The others look a little taken aback but Jon is a man on mission, so he just plows right on.  “Sasha, thanks for the food. And happy birthday, Martin.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With those two tasks completed, and his brain again quiet, he turns on his heel and walks right into the Institute, leaving the other three to scramble in behind him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s work to do, after all. No matter how good he may feel, no matter the enjoyment he drew from spending some time out, that all slips away in the face of what’s to come; there’s always, </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> more work to do.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed!! I love hearing from you guys!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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